In my world it didn’t get much cooler than Anthony Bourdain. His presence posed a direct threat to all the saccharine sweet, eager-to-please, yes-men and women clogging up the airwaves. Tony celebrated the unappreciated and overlooked. He was a champion for the strugglers, the downtrodden, the voiceless, and at the time of his passing there seemed to be somehow less hope in world. I genuinely felt that in his absence culture, travel, food, and frankly humanity would slip into a dark venal place without him to check the evildoers and balance the scales. His distinctive voice has been woefully missed.

While many know him (often exclusively) through his TV shows—phenomenal as they were—they are not his greatest work. That title belongs to the handful of books he left behind.

Fair reader, even if you should have an ambivalence toward food or have the palate of a glossectomy patient, I encourage you to read his books if only to bear witness to what masterful storytelling is like. I tell you, there is a special kind of joy to be experienced when a person who shares your inner most thoughts and vices puts them down on the page so damn eloquently; each sentence articulated in that unique voice of his studded with cigarette butts, charred meat and soaked in beer and punk rock.

When I first caught wind that a Bourdain film was in the works I was pissed. How dare someone make a film about Tony without consulting me? And didn't they know that I was writing the script for the movie based on his life? Who were these rotten opportunist bastards!? Then I found out it was a documentary and my anger abated – somewhat. This was precious subject matter we were dealing with. Then I discovered who was behind the production and I warmed to the idea even more.

Roadrunner: A Film About Anthony Bourdain opens in theaters across the US tomorrow. I’ve purposely stayed away from reading any comments or reviews about the film—I want to dive head first into whatever Morgan Neville has conceived. If done right many people will see a side of Tony they may not of known was there prior to the suicide unless they had been paying close attention. His body of work provided clues of his torment—his darkness. One of my absolute favorite writeups on Tony was this piece by Maria Bustillos in which she burrows deep into Tony’s psyche by way of his fictional literature. Bustillos manages to make just enough of an incision on the exoskeleton so as to allow the reader a peak into his fragmented soul. I read somewhere that Tony himself read the piece and thought it to be unnervingly too on point.

So what would’ve Tony thought if he knew there would one day be a documentary about his life? Well, he’d probably be somewhat embarrassed and tar and feather the notion with that classic self-deprecating humor of his: “How much did you spend on this film? Dude, bad investment.” Though Tony had a downright scholarly knowledge of film. He gushed over his favorite cinematographers, directors and scriptwriters. However, first and foremost he was an ardent cinephile. Something tells me that if Tony were secretly alive today he’d find his way into an old movie house—hoodie over his head, no popcorn—and like many of us, just hope to enjoy a good film.